Last Martyrs of a Lost Cause - Don't Shoot...

It's no secret that an artist's career, alike any social involvement, is as frail and fragile as can be, and while front page headlines more often than not selectively boast charming success stories, the demise of a beloved act is no less than devastating. Nevertheless, though devotees may witness a painstaking loss, and a bout of agony for which one may never discover the cure, allow me to reiterate a moth-eaten bit of knowledge for enthusiasts to thrive upon; every new beginning spawns from another beginning's end, and for that may onlookers stamp themselves as faithful.

In the case of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania's grippingly-titled Last Martyrs of a Lost Cause, hopeful listeners will uncover their antidote, and in turn, a musical act bound to mesmerize enthusiasts and cynics everywhere. Hatched from the ashes of assorted, celebrated ska-punk outfits, the members of Last Martyrs of a Lost Cause have conjoined to commence a virginal pursuit, and with a clean slate, the possibilities are far from limited. With their debut, four-song offering, cleverly-branded Don't Shoot the Messenger, the group tests the muscle of genre barriers, primarily disjoining ska, punk, and reggae music, with a formula that is incomparably accessible, and one with the necessary signs of marketability nearly bursting from it's seams. In fact, while mainstream media may openly resist the group's often discarded brand of artistry, Don't Shoot the Messenger's all-encompassing approach will undoubtedly garner an oddly diverse audience, and with that, shower the industry with not only a breath of fresh air, but a middle ground so commonly desired.

On "Throwing January Away," the EP's initial disclosure, lead vocalist Chris Irons (formerly of West Chester, Pennsylvania's underground ringleaders, Long Shot Hero) executes his unique, albeit raw, voice amidst an epidemic blast of pulsating guitar work, heavy drums, driving bass, and clever brass arrangements courtesy of the assemblies dual trombonists. The song's structure, however, while quite simple in comparison to more intricate work, is perhaps the track's most gratifying component, as the standard verse, chorus, repeat pattern allows listeners to grow familiar with the act's keen musicians. On "Nightlife of the Living Dead," the disc's following offering, the outfit lace a standard pop-punk number with fluttering horn fractions and a flawless guitar solo, and while the ballad certainly doesn't exceed the genre's former craftsmanship, one would be foolish to grip higher expectations.

As the record progresses, listeners inch closer to the band's alluring intimacy, and our first impressions are nullified with further unclouded competence. "Let's Keep it Short," as one may or may not have estimated, clocks in at a mere fifty-two seconds, and although the curtains close before one is able to comprehensively collect their thoughts, the song's rapid punk-rock structure award's audiences with no less than sheer satisfaction. Finally, on "Don't Take it Personal," the EP's hindmost round, fans hoard the act's incontestable proficiency. While the frame itself is nothing beyond the ordinary boundaries of ska-punk music, buoyant upstrokes, glossy brass arrangements, and forceful guitars formulate the song's mould, and truthfully the group's knack for bright melodies are inspiring. Moreover, while the potentional praise for the number alone is assuredly illimitable, Irons' pure endurance is admirable, and from a lyrical perspective, though his remarks are far from dreamlike, center-stage limelight has never witnessed such galling honesty.

While nonbelievers worldwide are bound to obliterate Don't Shoot the Messenger without a second glance, may global participants pay this stunning debut effort the indisputable respect and applause it so graciously deserves. In a mere four anthems, Last Martyrs of a Lost Cause have established themselves as not only a vigorous outfit, but musicians with a scarce gift to transform the face of music as we know it into something epic, and similarly, something words can't even begin to describe. Don't Shoot the Messenger is a sensational foundation for the Philadelphia-based sextet, and with the essential bullwork, desire, and unified ambition, absolutely no reason exists as to why Last Martyrs of a Lost Cause possess anything less than the grant to enthrall believers everywhere.

What an awesome review of a stellar first recording. Not only does the music kick ass, their first live show was nothing short of a religious experience. I cannot wait for these guys to make it, as it seriously is just a matter of time. Keep up the good work boys.

I'm stunned. Normally, I take issue with music journalism insofar that it is all "journalism" and no "music." That is to say, I feel that music journalists are able to churn out multiple pages of flowering prose without saying anything substantial. However, in just a few short paragraphs, Brandon Allin has managed to represent himself not only as someone with no practical knowledge of music, but as someone with a very, very tenuous grasp of English as well. But how could someone that employs metaphors as apt as "center-stage limelight has never witnessed such galling honesty" possibly be incompetent, let alone unintelligent? (galling |ˈgôli ng | adjective annoying; humiliating : the loss was particularly galling.) This is precisely what Mr. Allin hopes to achieve in his review - that the reader walks away as confused as he. However, despite Allin's faults as a writer, and they are many, he did have courage enough to coin the word "potentional" - courage, I admit, that I do not possess. Since I have to leave, I'll end with a haiku:

"The water cascades,
Frail and fragile as can be,
Allin's writing sucks."

I'm stunned. Normally, I take issue with music journalism insofar that it is all "journalism" and no "music." That is to say, I feel that music journalists are able to churn out multiple pages of flowering prose without saying anything substantial. However, in just a few short paragraphs, Brandon Allin has managed to represent himself not only as someone with no practical knowledge of music, but as someone with a very, very tenuous grasp of English as well. But how could someone that employs metaphors as apt as "center-stage limelight has never witnessed such galling honesty" possibly be incompetent, let alone unintelligent? (galling |ˈgôli ng | adjective annoying; humiliating : the loss was particularly galling.) This is precisely what Mr. Allin hopes to achieve in his review - that the reader walks away as confused as he. However, despite Allin's faults as a writer, and they are many, he did have courage enough to coin the word "potentional" - courage, I admit, that I do not possess. Since I have to leave, I'll end with a haiku:

"The water cascades,
Frail and fragile as can be,
Allin's writing sucks."